The Master
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: A brief, bloody war erupts between several ruling Families and the Mafia Vargas Family when a spy between them all is suddenly killed. In a fight between right and wrong, the Families meet and plan, and, with the country's greatest assassin as their greatest asset, they plunge into a fate far worse than they could ever imagine. T for brief violence and language.


**The Master**

The woman sat in her car, her phone pressed against her cheek. She placed her elbow against the open window, allowing some of the stifling heat to disperse and not suffocate her within the metallic hulk. She drawled on, her coral-pink lips twisted in distaste, about affairs of the utmost boring affairs. Across the lot, watching the car throb in the summer heat, Feliciano Vargas would already have fallen asleep. However, she was discussing business plans about her restaurant—something Feliciano wanted to do himself but never had the opportunity quite yet.

"Yes, we don't have enough time, but I want that place spick and span by this Thursday and the following Monday we better be serving food…" So it went on. She turned her gaze out the window, at the abandoned warehouse across from a bustling grocery store. Her eyes couldn't see Feliciano, bathed in shadow, with an unobtrusive sweater and jeans on. Children screeched next to the grocery store, the meat in the back seat threatened to rot in the insufferable heat, but she refused to leave until the business was settled.

On the other end of the phone, a wiry lawyer complained about how much money it would cost to fix up the shabby place in three day's time. Feliciano knew the man. He was too stupid to swindle but too cheap to offer even plain help. He was on his list. The man was tiptoeing closer and closer to Feliciano's zone, closer to his big brother. Thinking about these business matters already made Feliciano's eyelids droop. He huffed and stretched under the shadow of the building's pillars, watching his own faint shadow play against the rusted walls.

The woman tucked her phone back in her purse and leaned back, her brown hair spilling over the seat. Feliciano stepped out of the shadows, tucking his hands into his sweater and walking with a slight bob of his head, casually looking around the vicinity. He stopped before her car and with his tanned fingers tapped against the mirror. She started, looking towards him. Her green eyes were wide and then she relaxed once she saw the friendly face before her. Feliciano's features were soft, gentle, laughing. His hair, copper curls glittering almost gold in the sunlight. He leaned against the car door, his chest touching the handle, and his amber eyes swimming with an inviting light.

"Hello," he said, "I've heard you're opening a restaurant, right? Well, if you can do me a favor and open it a day earlier than you planned to host a private party, my friends will make sure that your business will be booming in a matter of weeks!"

She felt apprehension rising in her throat. She swallowed it back. "I don't have the money to do that, sorry."

"Money's no issue." Feliciano pulled a card from his pocket and slid it over to her. He slung one leg over the other, to make it look like he was having a casual, everyday conversation with a pretty woman. "Give this card to the bank located on that address," he tapped the fine print on the card, "And you'll be set. We're doing you a favor. Think of it as that, and by hosting us that party you'll be repaying us. What do you say?"

"What's the catch?" the woman was far from stupid. She excelled all her classes and was at the top of her business for a reason.

"No catch, nothing at all. If you don't comply we'll find someone else."

"You won't forget my refusal."

"No, we won't, I'm afraid." He chuckled, shrugging.

"You're a nice looking young man," she said slowly at last. She pocketed the card. "It's a deal."

Feliciano bade her farewell and walked off, beaming as if he'd gotten himself a date. Several eyes followed him, bought his bait, and went along their own business. The first steps of the path were paved. Feliciano's job had only begun.

.

The phone broke the silence in the dimly lit room with several short, sharp rings. A gloved hand reached for it and calmly drew the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

"We have a gig: the Friday at that place." The deep, harsh Italian voice of Lovino Vargas said.

The phone clicked off. Ivan Braginsky set it down and looked across the room. Slivers of light from beneath the curtains cut through the murky darkness. Sitting before him was his sister, Natalia. She placed her hands calmly on her lap, where the black satiny dress was pulled tight. A red and black shawl draped over her shoulders. Her silver hair fell over it, framing her ovular face. She did not smile at her brother, a broad, big Russian man with a cigarette hanging from his lips, emitting slow plumes of bluish smoke.

"I want you and three bodyguards to accompany me." He said at last, crushing the cigarette.

"You really don't trust them, do you?" Natalia said, leaning further back. She placed her bag on her lap. Her face was impassive. She had perfected the art of appearing like a bored, untroubled young woman. She was the second best assassin in the country. The third best knocked on the door. Ivan didn't move. He nodded and the man, who had hidden in the dark, pulled the door open.

The third best assassin in the world stepped in. His hair fell evenly around his face, honey gold, and his sharp green eyes darted happily from Ivan to Natalia. He took his seat beside Natalia, crossing his legs and fixing the leather strap of his glove. Hidden blades, half laced with poison, waited inside brown cases along his knuckles, hardly visible. He wore a simple green suit.

"I couldn't help but overhear that you and those other Families were planning on visiting tonight. Where's my invite?" He chuckled, smiling broadly at the two. Natalia smiled back. She liked Felix. He was a bubble of light in their otherwise morose Family.

"All of us are coming with only one or two others and several bodyguards. Besides, I can't risk losing you. You're a good assassin." Ivan said calmly, his voice in a constant monotone. He respected Felix more than he admired him. But he was a part of the Family of which Ivan was head; he was the father, the overseer.

"I'm flattered," Felix said. "If you need me, you know how to find me."

"You didn't come here to chat, did you?" Natalia said abruptly.

A venomous light flashed in Felix's eyes. He turned slowly to her. "I'm afraid I have some bad news as well. One of our allies is hurt."

"'Hurt'? What do you mean 'hurt'?" Natalia asked, scowling.

"He was a spy between us and the Vargas Family. I use the term 'friend' lightly. He was attacked by that makeshift family with no history." Felix was usually good at keeping the accent out of his voice, but in his disdain his Polish accent slipped through the cracks. "He isn't dead. I can make him dead if you want me to."

"He knows too much about us already," Ivan said in a measure tone. He knew this would happen. He had specifically made sure that no vital information leaked through to the 'friend'. But he couldn't trust the rest of his family. "Make it quick."

"Will do," Felix said, and left.

.

"Our grudge goes back to our ancestors, doesn't it?" Antonio laughed, his Spanish accent he refused to let go off laced each word and syllable. "Why don't we let it go?" he held out his brown hands, standing askew, one leg jutted out clad in a black boot.

"I won't let it go because your foolishness has renewed it." Across from him, Arthur said. His straw-blond hair shifted in the wind. They stood along a sea port. The soggy wood below them croaked with each shift of their feet. A gray mist to match the sky's hue rolled through, coating the glittering sea in greasy shades.

"What mistake would that be?"

There was no mistaking the flash of fear in Antonio's eyes. He frowned, his broad, powerful face contorting briefly between that frown and a cheerful smile trying to replace it. Arthur watched it with no change in his expression.

"Do I have to go on a monologue before you, Antonio?" Arthur asked, "You've been a spy between three, or more goodness knows, Families and you expect me to forgive you? You're drifting between families, you're dancing around landmines. One was bound to go off."

"I can explain—I never shared that big of information—!"

"Exactly! You were useless too! If you had sided with one Family maybe they would save you."

"I can explain, please listen…"

Arthur held up a hand to silence him and flicked his wrist. Antonio began to turn behind him, finally understanding all the signs—the black car, the ill will, the foggy location, the uneasy hostility between them all, the bribe, and now the gunshot. Antonio screamed out as the bullet landed his knees. He fell forwards, blood spurting from the wounds and a knot of tight pain clenching inside his now destroyed kneecaps.

Without another word Arthur vanished into the fog, leaving behind only the distance clicks of his dress shoes.

.

In the parlor the notes of Piano Concerto No. 2 vibrated against the walls. Sitting before the piano was a well-dressed Austrian man, his brown hair swept back, and his long face relaxed in concentration. His fingers moved swiftly, deftly. Beside him an albino man, also lost in his music, accompanied the piece with its violin part. Too soon the song was over and the albino man laughed loudly. His name was Gilbert and he never killed a man before. Roderich, the Austrian, frowned at the sudden laughter, as though the sound had soiled the moment of silence following their piece.

"What's so funny?" he asked solemnly, adjusting his glasses. He stood, shut the piano, and put the seat beneath it.

"We fight less when we play, don't we?" Gilbert snickered, his red eyes glowing with the humor only he could see. "West, come out of the back. You think your brother can't tell you've been listening this entire time?" He said, calling his little brother by his pet name.

Ludwig walked from behind the pillars that lined the hall, separating it from the garden behind. The sun painted the greens and blues and pinks of the garden a nostalgic hue of orange. Ludwig gave them both a stiff smile. He was larger than them both, built like a tank with bulging muscles down his arms and chest. His thick jaw displayed no emotion. He certainly was big and bold enough to be the head of the Family, but he was only a sort of "secretary" to the true head.

"Sorry, Gilbert," he said curtly, "I heard the music and couldn't help but listen. I came here to ask you to come to the main room. We're deciding who is going to the meeting."

Gilbert grinned. "Maybe I'll get invited this time, if I'm in his good graces." No one addressed the head of the family by his name. The two followed Ludwig through the polished hallways of their house, their heels clicking.

Once in the main room, they sat in a circle on plush ottomans. Roderich followed his hands on top of his knee. Gilbert sat next to him, stifling a yawn. Ludwig stood next to the head and on the other side a young girl named Lili played with the hem of her pastel pink sundress.

The head looked around them, his cruel green eyes under slanted eyebrows, all framed by unevenly cut yellow hair. His name was Vash and Lili was his little sister, who he protected above all else. He cast careful glances at her each time. The main members of his family, as well as several bodyguards, were now collected before him.

"I am not going," he announced, "Ludwig will go in my place. I have chosen who will go with him, but first I will give my reasoning. We have one of the smaller Families. The Braginsky Family has a much broader selection and here we all are. I am sending one of your out only because I cannot risk losing everyone. Roderich, you are going."

Roderich nodded.

"But, I warn you, do not trust anyone until total peace has been made. Keep your eyes open. Mixed Families, like that certain family with no heritage whatsoever should not be trusted even then. Keep your eyes open but don't dismiss everything. Make no decisions until you have ruled out all others. Is that clear?"

Roderich and Ludwig nodded.

"Get your uniforms on. I don't want to look like some slum family."

The two designated men left to prepare.

Gilbert fumbled with a string that stuck out of his divan, obviously flustered at not having been picked. Sure, he was loud, often rude, but he could tame himself. Vash regarded him carefully. A ghost of a smile played on his lips.

"Gilbert, you know why you're staying."

"Yeah, yeah…"

.

The mixed Kirkland Family had the most demure house of them all. It was large, expansive, by the sea, but compared to the other five Families' furnishings, this house looked like a shabby apartment bought on a college allowance. The main room, decorated with sculptures with light pooling in from large glass doors to the garden, held the family for each meeting. The garden was alive with the sound of birds, a distance swishing of the sea, and the tinkling of the fountain in the corner. Children of wealthy families played outside, of ordinary families with doctors or bosses or lawyers for parents. None of these children would grow up in a family of blood money and distrust.

The children in the main room played with their toys. Francis Bonnefoy, a hefty Frenchman with delicate eyes and curly hair, chased them out playfully. The older, a brown girl with two long pigtails, refused to leave.

"Come on, Sey, this is important business." He said.

Peter, the younger one, also crossed his arms and refused to leave. He had a strong likeness to the head of the family, even though no one really knew who his parents were.

"Why do we have to leave? We're old enough!" The girl complained, spreading her fingers out.

"Yeah, we can handle it!"

Francis only laughed and ushered them out, bribing them with a promise of his infamous chocolate cake. Then the Family settled down in lush chairs. Arthur sat before them all, with his back to the glass doors and two ex-policemen bodyguards standing behind him. He crossed his legs and laced his fingers, surveying the scene before him. Sitting side by side were the brothers Alfred and Matthew, dressed in black suits and gauzy red ties. They leaned back on the chair, a cigarette at Alfred's lips. Francis sat near them, watching Arthur expectedly.

"We've been invited to meet the other Families, as you know," Arthur began, shifting on his chair. "As you know, we're the least liked of them all. We're mixed. I'm British, he's French, and so on. So we need to be careful in who we send. We can try to impress the others by sending you two brothers out," he nodded at Alfred and Matthew, "But they'll see through that trick easily. Therefore I want Alfred and Francis to go. Matthew you will stay behind with me."

"Hold up, you're not coming?" Alfred said, leaning forwards on his chair. He was a handsome man, with his hair in a distinctly forty's cut, and bright blue eyes. Arthur pitied him. Why did he have to join this Family feud where the Vargas Family Mafia was involved? He could be killed, just like that. Arthur felt sick imagining Alfred with his throat slit and his face in the papers but not for being a hero but a villain.

"No," Arthur snapped.

"You're the head of the Family! You have to go."

"I'm not the only head staying behind."

"Who else is?" Francis piped up.

"The Zwingli Family's."

They turned to Arthur. No one said a word, but the question was well understood. Outside, perched on the palm trees swaying in saline air, birds squawked. Matthew, the quietest of them all, raised his mousy head slightly. Next to his brother he seemed to disappear. The children hollered upstairs. The girl accused Peter of having stolen her doll and Peter, who did in fact steal it, stubbornly denied it.

"Hush!" Francis called. He had a soft spot for children and invited them into his family when he found out they had no homes.

"Sorry, Uncle Francis," the girl cried back shyly, leaning over the banister just above them. She looked once at Arthur, her thin arms tense, her brown hair spilling over, and she squeaked. Arthur didn't mean to glower. She hid back into her room. Peter shyly crossed the pathway; a bridge suspended above the main room, tossed the doll back, and scrambled back to his room. Alfred didn't look but Matthew giggled softly when Peter stuck his tongue out at Arthur.

Eyes returned to Arthur. "I know because a little birdie told me." He grinned.

"There's a traitor on their side?" Francis asked, "And how did they get you the information so fast? Only this morning we got the OK to use that restaurant."

"Every family has a traitor. Anyone's morals can be broken with a certain amount of money. And besides, these traitors will meet their end one day. I met with Antonio this morning. What a shame, he's such a wonderful man."

"Did you kill him?" Matthew looked over in fear. He knew the Family business, but he refused to believe Arthur could actually kill someone with his bare hands.

"No, Francis injured him, good aim by the way," Francis nodded his thanks, "But then as we began to leave an assassin from the Braginsky family seemed to swoop out of the sky. He cut Antonio up swiftly. He's skilled, I may add, and with that he vanished. I daresay he hardly bloodied his blade!"

"You know an awful lot about these other Families," Alfred said. Arthur, the once poet's, vast expanse of knowledge always baffled him. Arthur shrugged.

"I do my research."

"Then do you know who the assassin is in the Vargas Family?" Matthew asked the million dollar question. For the past few years deaths have resulted from trouble in the Vargas Family, the only true Mafia to stick to its ancestral Sicilian rules, and no one could find out who did the killing. The little brother was out of the question. He was too shy, too innocent, and besides he was the messenger not a bodyguard. Arthur voiced these opinions and then some debate occurred. Very little was known about the Vargas Family, except that Lovino, the oldest son, had taken the role as head when his grandfather, the Don Roma, passed away suddenly due to a heart attack. Lovino was bad tempered, pugnacious, but surprisingly well-suited to the job.

"Get ready. I want your nice suits on." Arthur stood, signaling the dismissal.

.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Feliciano watched his brother write something down on a piece of paper and hand it to the man next to him. The man, a hefty Sicilian, left with it, nodding at Feliciano out of respect.

"No." Lovino gazed at his brother. Lovino was a darker version of his brother. His hair was a much darker brown, his eyes more brooding, and his smile more grim. He wore his favorite black suit with a red flower pinned to the lapel.

Feliciano nodded, brushing his hair back briefly. The windows were thrown open. A maid bustled in one corner, cleaning the bookshelf. Lovino watched her for a moment, sighing. He placed his chin on his hand.

"Do you really think we can make peace with everyone?" Feliciano asked hopefully.

Lovino shook his head. "I'd be surprised if everyone comes out alive. I expect bloodshed."

Feliciano was taken aback for a fraction of a second. Lovino, in his pensive, consulting state was the spit and image of his grandfather, the same well-worn eyes, the same gruff exterior, and the same patience developed after years of a horrible temper. Feliciano was worried. He didn't want his big brother to grow up to the same fate as their grandfather. The Don Roma could handle it, but spindly, tough little Lovino might not be able to.

The doors swung open and a young woman rushed forwards, her beige skirt flapping around her thighs. She stopped before Lovino, her breath coming in short bursts.

"What is it?" Lovino asked, alarmed, enraged.

"Antonio…. Has been killed…" She panted. Her hair spilled over her right shoulder, tied at the neck. Her moth-like eyelashes fluttered, tears threatening to break loose.

"Claudia," Lovino asked, his Italian reaching a new, soothing level he reached only with women, "Tell me all you can then take the day off."

"All we know," she took a sharp breath. She told the news rapidly, never stumbling, "is that Antonio was a traitor to us all, playing back and forth between Families, including that mixed back of Frenchmen and British. Then this morning he was shot then assassinated by one of the top, though unidentified. He had recently spilled some news and pulled a wrong cord. We have reason to suspect that he had been working with a third party, outside of them all."

"Thank you, Claudia, go home." Lovino said. Once she left his expression fell haggard. His eyes gaunt, his cheeks inflamed with blood, madness creeping into his veins like thousands of insects swarming for their prey. He gripped the pen and then threw it across the room.

"Feliciano," Lovino rounded on him, "You know what to do. Stay out of this meeting."

Feliciano nodded and turned, taking calm steps out the door, down the hall. Then he grabbed on to a ladder and vanished through a hidden passageway along their heavily and expansively furnished walls.

Lovino plucked the red flower from his lapel, pinching it between two fingers. Slowly he shook his head. He called his secretary, who walked in fearfully. She knew his rage well. "So, a bad move has been made this morning. We can never have peace, it seems. This means war."

.

The head of the Wang Family lounged on the perfumed couch, watching his Family gather around him. He said not a word. He pointed to Kiku, a Japanese male with charmingly dark eyes and Lin, a tall woman with inky black hair that reached her hips. They went to dress and prepare for the meeting. The others, afraid of the power Yao Wang emitted in waves, awaited their orders patiently.

"Im, stay some distance away from them. I want them protected," Yao said, his hair spilling over the side of the couch. He was one to suffer migraines often. He kept the lights constantly dim, scented candles surrounded him, and he spoke softly. He complained about his age often and was in a worse temper than even Lovino's riots most of the time.

Im nodded and left, leaving several others behind. Of the Families, this one was the largest. "The rest of you stay and await them. If there is trouble send the most able out. Only go in the direst of situations. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good, now, tell a maid to bring me tea…" he huffed, "I'm going as well to that meeting."

"It's dangerous!" Mei interjected suddenly, speaking out for the love of the man who was like her grandfather.

"Mei, be quiet," Yao said crossly, "If anything happens I'll leave. I may be in pain but I can still defend myself." He nodded at the Chinese gun latched on to the belt beneath his robes, as well as a dagger attached to his thigh, as most of the women do. No one in the Family went anywhere unprotected.

Mei bowed her head, apologizing for her behavior.

.

The final Family to be invited waited for Berwald to make the decision of who will go. He glared at no one in particular, his deep brows set. Matthias and Lukas sat next to him in silence. The rustling of a breeze punctuated the silence. Emil fidgeted uncomfortably, causing Lukas to chastise him. Emil scowled at him but tried to find peace with his jumping muscles.

Before Berwald took a breath to proclaim his decision, the door swung open and a figure cloaked in delicate white fabric with beautiful, gleaming eyes entered. The figure, slim, with rounded hips that would have been beautiful on a woman, sat down closest to Berwald, pushing back a hood and revealing a head of silky, nearly white hair. The round, gentle-featured face turned to Berwald. The figure, Tino, smiled his firm lips, the bottom one slightly large, and his nose as if shaped by a sculptor's hands. Of the Family, many argued that he was the most beautiful, right up there with Natalia and the young woman Lili. Tino didn't care much for that title, but was flattered all the same.

"Antonio was already dead by the time I got there." Tino said simply, his voice dancing with a Finnish accent.

Berwald grunted, "Matthias and Emil."

Lukas furrowed his eyebrows, brushing hair from his eyes. He thought that he, the most wily, the most cunning would have been a first choice. Matthias was a loud, obnoxious brute and Emil a kid! Lukas was about to argue but Tino had caught the look in his eyes.

"Lukas, it's all right," he said, "Berwald chose them for a reason."

"I want you to stay here," Berwald said gruffly. He didn't look at either Matthias or Emil. Emil's heart was racing. He had not expected that whatsoever. Matthias was in shock.

"Why?" Matthias asked slowly.

"If we lose you it wouldn't be too bad of a loss," Lukas explained, half-mockingly.

"Almost," Berwald said with a faint grimace that may have been a grin. "They can handle themselves best. Emil can run away and Matthias can fight."

"You're just like a cop, or a mom, you expect the worst." Emil muttered.

"No, I know what will happen. That's why I'm not going."

"Why do you think that?" Tino was surprised he dared speak up.

Berwald didn't answer. Instead he touched Tino's hand briefly, held it, squeezed it, and left a folded piece of paper inside it. No one else noticed, not even the perceptive bodyguards. Tino slipped the paper underneath the hidden blade he kept beneath his sleeve, strapped tightly to his skin. He had a gun strung across his back, a rifle, but he only took those out on special missions. Orange tape was on the butt of the gun. His excuse was that he was going camping. Who would expect otherwise of the gentle-faced Nordic wonder?

.

The meeting was inside a freshly-pained restaurant. The owner, the lovely brunette, was nowhere to be seen. She could smell the hypothetical rat in her figurative gutter and had fled for a vacation with some savings from before, not daring to touch the money the bank had so happily given her. A waiter, a stocky Turkish man, served them, moving back and forth with a false cheerful smile. The only other person working there was the chef, half-asleep.

Lovino Vargas sat at the table, looking at all those who arrived. Ivan sat next to him with Natalia at his side, then Francis and Alfred, Yao, Kiku, and Lin, Ludwig and Roderich, Matthias and Emil, and their bodyguards along the walls, some dining at their own tables. The order was not quite as big as the chef expected. Most didn't want to eat.

Already everyone knew how the meeting would end. Lovino knew it well. It shone in his eyes. One of these people, maybe more, was not likely to come home.

"As you know," Lovino began, "This feud between our families has been going on for far too long. Although none of us or those dear to us has been killed yet, we cannot allow this hostility to rain on. We should separate these businesses, first off.

"I will keep up with my food company. It is as the Don would have wanted it to be." Yes, lead them on, Lovino, Feliciano thought, watching from outside, perched on the roof of a drugstore. He could see them move in and out, he himself hidden well in disguise and in the shadows.

"I refuse," Lovino went on, "to take part in the drug or prostitution business. Call me old fashioned if you will, but that is my choice."

"That's the business of ours," Yao said, his voice hoarse from his headache which he fought stubbornly. "We will keep it if no one else wants to. The gambling business can go to someone else."

Im, pretending to read a newspaper on a bench, at the park across from the restaurant, cast his eyes across the lot. He couldn't see indoors or Feliciano. But, if there was a sudden flurry of movement or if anyone entered or exited the building he could have easily seen them.

So the business went on for some time, interrupted briefly by food, and then went on. For a while, even Lovino had the false hope that everything would go well. It seemed no blood would be shed that day. He exchanged several lawyers and once they reached the midpoint, seemed almost at ease. He reclined in his chair, his hands over his lap.

Feliciano saw his head kneel back. That was his cue. He slipped back behind the shadows, walking across the rooftop and kneeling down to inspect various items to make the illusion of him having a purpose up there. He stood, shadowed his eyes, and spotted someone shifting in the distance. And that, and his swiftness, and the creativity of his hidden arsenal, were the reasons that made him the number one assassin.

Im caught a burst of color, Feliciano, and stood. He walked calmly over the park when he was stopped by the sound of a woman crying. He turned and spotted a yellow-haired beauty standing by a tree. Her hair was short, but from her build he could tell she was at least in her twenties. She wore a dress that covered her almost juvenile physique. Her legs were apart, between them was her purse, spewing its contents.

"What happened, miss?" Im said, approaching her. She looked up, her eyes red with tears, her eyelashes wet and matted, her lips pouty. She was exquisite in her condition. She touched his arm briefly, tapping his elbow.

"Some brute stole my things!" She cried out. "He took my wallet and my cell-phone and ran that way!" She pointed behind her, precisely where Im couldn't see from his position on the bench.

"I'm sorry, miss, I wish I could help."

"Just… I need some comfort," she admitted shyly, brushing hair from her face and touching her dimpled cheek demurely.

Im blushed. Her suggestive gesture made him feel suddenly quite uncomfortable. He needed to help Yao, in case something was going to happen there. Yao probably wanted to go anyone. His headaches had increased just before leaving.

She was a siren, though. He couldn't leave. Her very voice was attracting him closer. She let out a tiny sneeze.

"Bless you," Im said automatically. Before he could ask if she needed a ride home, two sharp blades entered his neck. He slumped forwards. The blades withdrew with a metallic hiss. He plopped on the ground, blood spilling from where his brain stem had been severed, pooling on the grass.

"Let's get this out of here, Lili," Gilbert said, placing the blades into their slings along his belt. He raised the body. Lili took a napkin from her purse, which had not been stolen, and placed it against his neck, so not to drip blood everywhere. Gilbert's thin frame struggled briefly, until he got a proper hold, and then he left. Lili checked her surroundings without moving her head. The best way to attract attention was to look like you aren't trying to attract attention. They hid the body away in a dumpster, which Gilbert found oddly cruel and insulting.

"That's your first kill, Assassin in training," Lili said, patting his shoulder with her small hand. "Nice work."

"I've learned from the best," he told her. She shrugged and turned the other way, going home. A woman with a bloody dress aroused far less suspicion than a man with blood on his clothing. Gilbert instead undressed and took on less suggestive clothing, going a different way than from whence he came.

.

Feliciano walked behind a bench where Felix sat, trying to be unnoticed. He gazed around the surrounding people. Many had shopping bags. Children bounced next to their parents, pointing to objects they wanted in the mall plaza. Feliciano watched Felix, trying to figure out how it would be best to take revenge on Antonio's death. Felix eventually stood, spotting a target, the same man who had swindled his family.

Felix started walking and Feliciano, keeping a good distance away, walked after him. He pretended to stop at time, never letting Felix out of his sight, and thus went unnoticed. Felix stopped before the fat man, who was discussing something insulting. Felix walked past him, his bare fingers spread out. He scratched the man's wrists, excused himself, and then swerved down the hallway. The man looked behind him. His wrist was beginning to swell. Feliciano saw a spot of green as he went around the building, finding Felix exit the other side. He praised Felix on the subtlety. The poison wouldn't work for some time, maybe not until after he had eaten something.

For a while Feliciano walked after Felix who seemed to be going in circles. Felix had focused on someone in the distance, trying to elude them, climbing on buildings, attracting attention to someone else, or knocking into people. Eventually Felix ended in an empty parking lot. He turned sharply, facing Feliciano.

"So, you're the killer, aren't you?" he asked slyly, placing his hands on his hips. "We were all wondering who did the killing for the Vargas Family. And, lo and behold, it's little, friendly Feliciano. I thought you loved people? I thought you couldn't kill a tiny, teeny tiny fly?"

Feliciano said nothing. He stood still, his hood down to expose his face. He suspected at the third circling that Felix knew he was behind him.

"You made your first mistake when you passed behind me on that park bench, Feliciano." Felix explained. "I saw you smile when I cut up that lousy bastard."

Feliciano remained silent.

"So, it's between you and me, isn't it?" Felix let his hand drop, four identical blades slipping from his glove. Feliciano began to reach for his gun and was shocked for the first time. His eyes widened in panic. His hand met empty air.

"Are you looking for this thing?" Felix asked, raising a gun over his head.

Feliciano stared at it in horror, ready to scream. Felix was too sly. He was a fox. Feliciano pulled a dagger from beneath his shirt, holding it at ready.

"We could have been friends, Feliciano," Felix said sadly, his smile slipping away in genuine sorrow. "Too bad family ties had to get into this."

He took several steps forwards. Feliciano held his hands up, the daggered one out. Felix grabbed his extended hand quickly, spinning into Feliciano's grip and cutting his face sharply before Feliciano palmed his temple, knocking him back. Feliciano felt hot blood dripping down his chin. He lounged forwards and the battle begun. They sliced and cut, both losing too much blood, neither remembering what their original purpose was for fighting. Felix was unorthodox, slipping between the cracks, jamming his blades where he could, meeting protective gear. Feliciano fought straight on, missing Felix's ear by inches. Their blood painted the sidewalk. A few cars that wanted to park swerved out of the way, making it home headlong.

After a gruff fifteen minutes, both their breaths coming in sharp inhalations and rugged exhalations, Feliciano sighed. He shut one eye, his eyelashes matted with blood. Felix smiled at him, holding out one bloody, cut hand. Flesh squirmed beneath and his clothing was sticking to him. Tufts of his delicate hair had fallen out. Feliciano stuck his hand out as well. He went to shake Felix's hand, but, his wrist bent back and a hidden blade slipping through, he dug into Felix's stomach. Felix doubled over, feeling his entrails slip out. He coughed and vomited blood, crying out in lament. Their blood continued to drip. Feliciano felt dizzy. He watched the crimson tear drops fall, so slowly… He fell to one side in a dead faint, picked up later by paramedics that someone had called. Feliciano later learned that Felix was dead by the time he fainted and that the woman who saved his life was the very one who loaned them the restaurant for the evening. She knew blood would be shed. She called to have her sister on the lookout.

.

Tino balanced on his stomach on the rooftop, shadow falling over him like a blanket. He held his sniper just before him, his gray clothing blending into the building beneath him. He looked down into the restaurant. He saw the group continue talking. Ivan looked around, up at Tino, and did not see him. Tino's heart raced. He told it to quiet down. He'd done this a million times before. But never had he had to kill someone he knew so well. He aimed it precariously, watching the people inside. The waiter was more nervous, going to the back, checking to see that the gun he brought on his manager's orders was still hidden in the corner of the kitchen. The chef eyed the door, ready to make a sprint for it if needed. He wouldn't. No one acts properly under panic unless they were that special kind of person.

Lovino stood up and addressed them, proposing a toast to a happy ending. Lovino's eyes met with Tino's. At least, they were pointed up at the Finish sniper. They drank and laughed, relaxing visibly.

Tino regarded each person carefully. He had enough bullets to shoot everyone in the room three times over, but he had only enough time to shoot four at most before panic rose. Tino was fast, but not fast enough. Berwald, in his letter, told him which four to kill, ranking them from most important to least important.

The head of the Vargas Family was an obvious choice. The man was the most powerful. But because he was the most powerful, killing him would cause the most trouble. Most of the heads had refused to come, and for a good reason as well. Someone in that room would die.

There he was, the first target, standing there: Alfred F. Jones. He was next in line to take hold of the Kirkland Family, making it then the Jones Family. Arthur didn't plan to lead the place his entire life. He wanted to settle down. Francis would never take over, he was too kind, too loving. Therefore Alfred, being the next oldest, was the obvious choice. If he rose to power all the other Families would have to join with his. Alfred was too greedy, despite being a good man at heart. Tino aimed at him, checking to see where his three other targets were. There was Kiku, also next in line, and would cause Yao more grief than if Yao had the bullet in his head. Then there was Natalia who killed with poison-laced lipstick, taking on the role of temptress and leading men by their own choice to their doom. And, finally: Emil.

Tino's knees turned to water. When he read the name he had to read it three times over before it sunk in. Why did Emil have to die? Berwald was a sage man, but surely he must have made a mistake. Emil could leave the Family and keep his mouth shut well. What danger did he pose? Tino refused to kill someone from his own family. He hoped that he would be discovered before he had to pull a trigger a fourth time.

The time was ripe. Everyone was eating their dessert, almost finished by the looks of it. Tino shifted and aimed at Alfred's head. The window was open, lucky Tino. Matthias knew Tino was up there. He didn't know who Tino would kill. Matthias, who had a drink, had suggested to open the door to the stifling heat. Lovino distrusted the motive, but the heat was so bad that even he had to agree. Now a wind shifted through the hot room. Silverware clattered on plates. The chef bustled. The waited moved nervously. The time would be gone.

Tino pulled the trigger. Alfred's head snapped back. Before anyone knew what had happened, Natalia was on the ground and Kiku was bleeding over the table. Alfred lay on the ground, twitching, and then his life's breath exited him one last time. Kiku fell to death less easily, trying to fight the bullet that dig through his brain, and then his arms gave up and the tablecloth turned crimson. Natalia had cried out, her sightless, delicately icy eyes stared at the ceiling. Ivan looked at her in shock. The others, finally understanding what had happened, stood. Matthias got up and Emil looked around nervously. His face went towards Roderich, who was in shock and then to Alfred who was dead.

"Traitor!" Tino cried below his breath and shot Emil dead, powered not by sense or command but by sheer bewilderment. Emil fell dead as well. The waiter grabbed his gun and had his back against the door. Tino saw the chef exit through the rear.

Matthias went to the window, looking apologetic for having opened the window. He was a good liar, even when drunk. He spotted Tino where the shade had lifted, his lone slim leg out in the light. Something moved, something flickered, and it wasn't Tino.

"N-No!" Matthias cried out and Tino began to turn, finding something hit his head and then the ground, below the building, coming up awful fast. Two legs exited the streak of sunlight. Berwald's heart would break when he heard the news.

Tino's killer wept in the back of the perched canopy that had provided Tino with shadow. He wiped his eyes, mourning his brother's death, morning Tino's blood on his hands, and mourning above all the fact that Arthur was right when he said this would not end happily. And that was all because of one foolish mistake someone made.

And that mistake went further back than Antonio's murder. It went further back than Don Roma's death and Feliciano's strange interest in the subtle nature of the assassin. It went even further back than the first Mafia that was created because the government ruling was worse than one that relied on blood money and didn't mind killing. The mistake went back to something even Matthew, the smart, docile, straight A student Matthew could understand. He didn't know why he cried. He stopped eventually, wiping the blood off his hands. He heard the police sirens wail down the street, their lights flashing against the buildings, the police men springing out of the car. They knew the Families. Some of them they were buddies with due to bribes or threats.

.

_"It's now or never, come hold me tight. Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight. Tomorrow will be too late, it's now or never. My love won't wait…"_

The record player belted out Elvis Presley's sweet singing, his airy words, and the upbeat tempo of the song. Feliciano tapped is finger against the chair. His wounds had healed. The incident, costing more people than it was worth, was nearly a year ago. Feliciano leaned his head back, listening to the music and to Lovino's quiet pen scratching. Things seemed to be at ease for once. Snow fell silently out the windows, collecting at the corners.

Lovino suddenly burst out laughing. Feliciano jumped, looking around wildly.

_"Just like a willow, we would cry an ocean if we lost true love and sweet devotion…"_

"What is it?" Feliciano asked.

"I finally found out who Antonio was working for. You'd be surprised, honestly! That stupid bastard. Emil, that kid who was killed at the meeting, and Alfred were together doing something apparently." His laugh sounded a trifle hysteric, insane. Feliciano walked over and hugged Lovino briefly.

_"Tomorrow will be too late…"_

"I'm sorry," Feliciano said.

"Why?" Lovino asked him in shock.

Feliciano only offered a sad smile.

_"It's now or never, my love won't wait…"_

.

**The Past**

When they were young, the Don Roma had little time for them. But that little time he had he made use of. He called both his grandchildren, of his daughter who passed away when giving birth to the youngest, and they sat on his lap. He wore a heavy suit, a cigar in his mouth that emitted clouds of smoke. He smoked only when he wanted to look serious. He snuffed the cigar and the two, their knobbed knees and thin, European legs, waited for him to tell a story.

The Don Roma was a great man. He was large, encompassing the entire scene that no matter how much Lovino later tried to emulate, he was never able to. Don Roma took off his hat, his messy curls falling into his eyes, his stubble tickling his grandsons when he hugged them.

"Tell us a story, Grandfather!" Feliciano cried out.

Lovino nodded in agreement.

Don Roma nodded his shaggy head. The maid brought him a drink then left. The underground world of the Mafia seemed at peace for a time.

"What about the story of Romulus and his brother Remus?" Don Roma suggested.

"No! We've heard that too many times. How about a new one?" Lovino asked, pinching his brother. Feliciano yelped and batted his hand at him. An Italian flag hung behind them. The Don Roma could hold the world on his shoulders if he wanted to, Feliciano figured. He told him that. Don Roma smiled.

"I'll tell you the story of Atlas, then. The man who carries the sky on his shoulders, so it may never touch the earth as divine punishment…"

Later, as the Don approached the end of his life and subsequently the Master, he would repeat stories often: forgetting what he had told them and what he hadn't. Sometimes he would lapse into Latin and leave the children behind, starting to chip away at the foundations of his Family.

.

"Are you sure you want to become an assassin, Feliciano?" Lovino asked. Don Roma looked over at them. He was haggard already. His age was beginning to eat him, to swallow him whole. His shoulders sagged and his skin seemed a size too big.

"Yes." Feliciano said. He was vigorously trained. No one knew the reason why he wanted the bloody job. He never did explain, even when he was tossed into the gates of death, to see The Master.

. . .

Shortly following the death of Alfred, the house became eerily silent. Arthur refused to speak to anyone. Francis was morose. The children understood nothing of the events, walking around the house like homeless spirits. The same happened in all the other houses as well. The Wang Family felt the loss of the two like a heavy blow to the stomach. The Braginsky Family was ill at ease. Two of the greatest assassins were now dead. Berwald's family, now him, Lukas, and Matthias alone in a house that began to crumble slipped into silence, and so forth. The great Families crumbled into nothing but rubble. Death and the loss of will to live left them sorrowful.

Even the Vargas Family had to fall. Times changed. The world revolved. Like candles snuffed by wet fingers, the Great Families were gone. They succumbed to The Master, who, like a ruler, waited for the perfect, calculated time to invite them over, rendering them of their final shred of free will.

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia. _

_Nor do I own "It's Now or Never" by Elivis Presley, which can be listened to here (highly recommended) _(YouTube)/watch?v=l0-FBlfvgxo

_Piano Concerto No. 2 is also not mine. It can be listened to here. _(YouTube)/watch?v=SjPulEZj_m4


End file.
